Details
by Faith Matheny
Summary: Greg Lestrade is minding his own business when some strange know-it-all in a big coat comes waltzing in to bother him. My headcanon of how Lestrade and Sherlock met.


Greg Lestrade always felt a bit odd whenever he had a Saturday night off. Well, perhaps he hadn't always felt that way, but in the eight months since his wife had died he'd been a bit of a lone wolf, if you'll pardon the term. He'd once been focused, or at least more focused than he was now, but had been exceptionally good at keeping his work life and his home life separate, unless he asked his wife for her opinion on a case. Anna had always been a quick one, cleverer than him tenfold, and sometimes pointed out some little detail that he never would have given any weight to in a million years, and that was one of the many things he loved about her.

Now, he sat at a small round table in the window of the pub nearest his modest flat, sipping on his third beer of the night and praying for some kind of breakthrough in the case file that was splayed out in front of him. He'd been poring over the case for three weeks now, and it had him and all of his subordinates baffled.

That was, until a tall man in a long coat sat down in the chair opposite him.

"Evening," the stranger said with a smile that was meant to be pleasant but looked forced.

"Evening," Greg replied, confused. He wasn't usually approached in the pub, except by waiters trying to get him to buy a meal (which he never did because they couldn't even cook a burger right). "Can I help you?"

"No, but I may be able to help you."

"You're not one of them sex workers, are you? If so, I'm not interested—"

"I assure you I'm not a sex worker, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Greg quirked an eyebrow. "How do you know my name?"

"I've seen you in the papers. You were actually a half decent detective until about eight months ago. Slow, but admirable, at least. Now you're puzzling over a case, and everyone you work with is just as baffled as you are."

Greg sighed, not in the mood for some freak's string of riddles. "And you think you can help me?" He lifted his glass to his lips, taking a sip.

"I've already solved the murder."

Greg chuckled. "Oh really?" he asked incredulously. This could be entertaining, and he was dying for something more entertaining than watching Larry Saunders get piss drunk and fall out of his barstool like he seemed to do every night Greg was there.

"Yes. But before I give you the information, I'd like to wager a deal with you."

Greg chuckled again, deciding to humor the man since he had nothing better to do. "Alright, let's hear it."

"You take me on as a consulting detective."

"What the bloody hell is a 'consulting detective?' Did you just make that up?"

The stranger bristled. "Yes. Only one in the world."

"Oh, this aught to be good."

The stranger had finally grown impatient with Greg's constant scoffing, his sharp blue eyes narrowing momentarily.

"You're the leading detective inspector at Scotland Yard. Your case record was flawless prior to eight months ago, when you lost someone close to you, probably your spouse, and I'm guessing a wife. Her disease was rare and sudden. She prevailed a few months but soon grew weaker and died, and you're still reeling from it, judging by the way your hands have just started shaking. You disappeared from the headlines for a month, and then you decided to pull yourself together and got back to work, only to find out that you'd lost your steam. You moved out of the flat you shared with your wife and moved into a smaller flat that you hate because the heat never works and you have to light the stove manually, which is why you just slipped that complimentary matchbook into your pocket. You don't drink a lot but you do enjoy a beer or two when you've had a particularly trying day, and you don't sleep much judging by your complexion. The friends you once had outside of work lost touch after your wife died due to far too many awkward lunches and you haven't bothered trying to make new ones, because you are uncomfortable with personal conversation due to the subject of your wife always coming up. Am I missing anything?"

Greg sat there for a few moments, positively stunned, and then he got angry. "Hey, what the hell are you playing at? Did Louise put you up to this, because I'm not having it."

The stranger's gaze never broke. "Am I missing anything?" he repeated.

Greg sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "No. Spot on, every detail. How the hell did you know all that?"

"I don't know," the man said sharply, "I notice."

"How did you 'notice' about my wife, then?" he snapped. "That wasn't in the paper."

"There were multiple clues; it wasn't a hard conclusion to draw. Your wedding ring, your posture, the dark circles under your eyes, the fact that you're sipping beer alone on a Saturday night, the fact that your shirt is buttoned incorrectly, and the fact that, as I said before, when I mentioned it your hands started to shake, as I said before."

Greg looked down at his shirt. It was buttoned incorrectly. Something Anna would have pointed out and fixed for him, teasing him about it all the while.

Greg studied the strange man for a moment, unsure how to feel about this assault on the private details of his life, now hyperaware of the tremor in his hands, just as they always did whenever anyone brought up Anna. He clenched them together, and sat forward.

"Alright. Well, if you're as good as you think you are, as you seem to be, what do you make of this?" He glanced down at the case file.

"Nope."

"'Nope,' what?"

"You have to agree to take me on the next time you hit a dead end in a case." Greg started to protest, and the stranger put up a hand to silence him. "There's no sense in denying that there will be a next time; save yourself the trouble."

Greg wasn't sure whether to be impressed with the strange man who somehow knew so much about his life or give into the overwhelming urge to punch him. Instead, he sighed, reached across the table, and shook the man's hand, wagering how seriously he would come to regret this.

The man proceeded to tell Greg exactly how he believed the case before him had played out, detail for detail. He spoke so quickly that Greg was forced to take scribbly notes inside the file and then stood, entirely pleased with himself.

"I believe, Detective Inspector, that upon careful review, you'll find all of my deductions to be correct. The name is Sherlock Holmes; I'll be in touch," he said before turning on his heel and sweeping away toward the exit.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Greg repeated, then, in a good-natured manner and grasping at the simplest thing he could fixate on, called after the man before the pub door closed: "What the hell kind of a name is that?"


End file.
